The Witness

Through the crack of the bedroom door
my father, his voice barking.
My mother’s sullen lips refuse
to kiss him sometimes and her stubborn mouth resists
the pull and drag of worn lipstick;
pieces of congealed wax and fat break up
and fall to the floor.
My father’s slow and heavy
now, as he moves towards my mother
treading wine coloured fragments
into the tan carpet, leaving an evident stain.

previously published in Red: Contemporary Black British Poetry